


Chicken Soup for the Brainwashed Assassin's Soul

by Flora_Obsidian



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Accidental Child Acquisition, Child Neglect, Gen, Human Experimentation, Not As Grim As The Tags Make It Sound, Post-HYDRA Reveal, the kids will be okay and bucky will be okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Obsidian/pseuds/Flora_Obsidian
Summary: The Winter Soldier has no given purpose in the wake of HYDRA's fall, and dedicates all available time and resources to the destruction of the group which turned him into what he is. But something is different about the most recent base destroyed...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by the following Tumblr posts:
> 
> http://doctorwhitttaker.tumblr.com/post/96497918570/kehinki-potofsoup-kehinki-okay-weve-all  
> http://misspryss.tumblr.com/post/95597176789/shouldnt-steve-be-sterile-too-really-otherwise
> 
> Warnings are up in the tags.

The destruction of HYRDA bases gives the Soldier a feeling of satisfaction-- though “satisfaction” is a new concept to the Soldier. He has learned to identify that feeling with an upward curl of the lips, of an expansive, outward press in the chest not related to his oxygen intake, of a defined sense of _correct_ floating in the empty hollows of his mind.

“Choice” is another new concept. “Choice” begins with diving into the Potomac to save the target, the target's face and the idea of falling from such a height causing something to rattle in his head, dislodged, knocked loose like the shrapnel falling from the flying fortresses. “Choice” begins with unclenching the fingers of the metal arm and letting himself drop. “Choice” begins with a set of words that are not any of the reset codes ( _you're my mission_. then finish it 'cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line) and a sudden barrage of sight-sound- _feel_ exploding behind his eyes.

“Choice” continues with utterly destroying all HYDRA bases that he knows of, because HYDRA now bears the designation in his mind “classification: evil SOB's” and he knows of a great many HYDRA bases. The locations (addresses, place names, latitude and longitude coordinates) are some of the information he retains without remembering where he actually got the information in the first place.

There is money in the bases, untraceable, printed by agents that had been planted in the US Treasury. There are weapons-- knives, guns of various sizes and makes, the proper bullets to go with them all, cattle prods, poisons-- on one memorable occasion, a sniper rifle and grenade launchers. All of them have been devoid of life so far-- well, a _few_ haven't, but that never lasted very long.

No guards. Bypass and disable security measures established by previous occupants to avoid setting off possible alarms: 7.9 minutes. Take weaponry and cash found in all rooms (locks on doors disposed of: 0.4 seconds per lock) inside base: 12.2 minutes. In this case, descend to basement, first level. Repeat process. Descend to basement, second level. Repeat process.

Descend to basement, third level. Repeat process.

Descend to basement, fourth level. Repeat process.

Single hallway, single door. No cameras. Steel walls, steel floor, two bulbs on the ceiling. Single handle, locked.

“Choice” is something he does not entirely understand yet, but it is a choice to take the handle with the metal arm and wrench it open with a single twist.

His boots sink into thick carpet, a contrast from the harsh steel floor in the corridor. His eyes absorb the pale gray walls and incandescent yellow lights on the ceiling. Boxes that read “PUZZLE” followed by a number, generally rounded to an even hundred, and a picture. A high cabinet and a padlock.

A crib. A bed in the corner opposite.

Breathing, not his own, two sets.

There is no one in the crib; a small child sits next to an overturned “PUZZLE” box and gnaws on one of the cardboard pieces. A larger child (yet still very small. why are children so small. size is a detriment to combat efficiency.) sits cross-legged on the bed and stares blankly at nothing. Neither of them look up at his entrance.

Older child. Estimate age: ten; conclusion reached based off child's approximate height and weight. Grey sweatpants, t-shirt, thin material. No weapons concealed. Brown hair, cut close to the head.

Younger child. Estimate age: sixteen months. Single piece of clothing to button up in the front, covers over feet. No weapons concealed. Likelihood that the child has the dexterity and muscle mass to effectively utilize any weaponry in the first place: 1%. Wisps of blond hair. Blue eyes.

Conclusion: not a threat.

Query: why are there children locked in the sub-levels of a low-grade HYDRA base.

Secondary query: what should the Soldier do with children found locked in the sub-levels of a low-grade HYDRA base.

Children are (probably) not weaponry, he thinks. Children are (probably) not HYDRA agents he needs to dispose of.

He thinks of a red room not painted red and of Russia, but he has nothing to tie to the memory (if it even is a memory), no intel, no other thoughts that relate, and dismisses it.

Standard procedure for interactions with children beyond: kill, avoid.

…

…

…

…?

Unknown variables. Obtain information.

“Why are you here?”

The younger child looks at him and drools. Unsanitary; conclusion: avoid contact. The older child speaks, but does not look at him. Or drool.

“HYDRA.”

 _Why_.

“Why?”

The child pauses, hesitates-- goes very still, more than before, somehow.

“I don't know.”

“Names?”

“Test Seven.” The older child points to the younger child, who has not stopped chewing on a “PUZZLE” piece, then points inward. “Test Two.”

Probability of conclusions that children are not HYDRA or HYDRA weaponry decreased 37%.

“You're weapons.”

The older child does not respond, either positive or negative.

The Soldier frowns.

The older child does not move. The younger child drools.

“Are you weapons?”

“Test Seven is a failed experiment. Requires medication. Scheduled to be disposed of.” A pause. “The handler is late.”

The Soldier blinks.

“The question was not fully answered.”

The older child looks confused.

“I am. Test Two.”

Conclusion: _failed_ HYDRA experiment.

The older child is thin, but not in a way that suggests malnutrition. Long, brown, curly hair and blue eyes; freckles; pale skin. The younger child has blonde hair and blue eyes and-- does it ever stop _drooling_. It has set down the cardboard piece and started to crawl toward him, and the Soldier's hand drifts toward his gun out of instinct-- a child. A _child_. Something twists sharply in his gut, and he forces himself to relax, just a little bit. Failed HYDRA experiments could mean weaponry, but even in his empty mind he knows that children are still children.

( _“These are the coordinates of your next mission. Approach target location, eliminate all persons inside.”_ )

The younger child grabs onto the tongue of his combat boot with sticky hands to maneuver into a standing position and blinks at the Soldier. The Soldier blinks back.

“Are you here to dispose of Test Seven?”

The older child has gone even more pale than before. It is the first time the Soldier has heard the older child speak without being asked a direct question. He wonders if the concept of “choice” has been introduced to either of them yet.

“No.”

The older child doesn't say anything for a long few minutes. The Soldier knows how to be patient, has waited days in one place just to get the right shot on a mission.

“Are you here to give medication to Test Seven?”

“No.”

There is a locked cabinet. Conclusion: medicine and (possibly) foodstuffs inside. Conclusion: the Soldier is not here to eliminate a target, and to not assist would result in elimination through inaction, so therefore the Soldier should administer medicine to the younger child who requires it.

Lock broken, 0.4 seconds.

There are several bottles of pills and a long white box with a clear blue lid and seven compartments. On the lid, there are letters. In the compartments, there are pills. He knows the date (12th of September), but not the _day_ , but the pills are all the same, and he flips open the left-most compartment and dumps the contents into his metal hand.

“Test Seven needs them to be crushed. The pills.” The older child has turned to look at the Soldier, just a little bit. “Can't swallow them.”

The younger child was dislodged from the Soldier's boot, but crawls right back up to him and grabs his boot again and drools and blinks at him. The Soldier looks at the pills in his hand and then at the child.

There is no water in the room. There are no foodstuffs in the room. There is only one door, one light switch, no windows.

Conclusion: failed HYDRA experiments abandoned with the facility, left to die.

Secondary conclusion: classification of HYDRA and affiliates changed from “evil SOB's” to “moldy newspaper left to rot in a corner” because that, for some reason, is the most useless thing the Soldier can conjure in his mind (aside from a gun whose barrel is twisted at a ninety degree angle, but even that can be fixed).

Tertiary conclusion: current emotion is best described as...

…?

Current emotion is best described as anger.

He carefully puts the loose pills and the box back onto the cabinet shelf.

“Wait,” he instructs, moving again out of the younger child's grasp and striding back out the door, up to the third level of the basement and into one of the rooms full of filing cabinets. There's a desk in the front, an old computer that's been wiped completely. Items are scattered haphazardly across the surface as though the person had been intending to come back. They probably had been, come to think. A water bottle in the lowermost cabinet on the right, unopened. More protein bars, which he stuffs into his duffel bag.

He had left the door open on the fourth floor. The older child is staring at it, now, instead of the far wall. The younger child immediately starts crawling back to the Soldier when he enters, water bottle in hand, duffel on his shoulder.

“When did you last eat?”

“Unknown.”

There are no windows in the room. There is no clock.

Estimated time since last occupancy based off dust levels in previous floors: two days. Duration of time before death due to dehydration in an average human: four days. Time extended in cooler temperatures and away from direct sunlight.

He holds out the water bottle. The older child's gaze shifts, staring at the door to staring at the water. The older child does not move.

“For drinking,” he says.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, the older child reaches out to take it from him. The younger child is once again sitting on his boot. Detrimental to movement; possibility of injuring child by accidentally stepping on them increasing. Solution: pick up child.

“Ba,” the younger child says, and pats the red star on the metal arm with a small hand.

Medication required.

_Why._

“Why does he need medication?”

The older child is drinking steadily, if slowly. Half the water is gone. “Poor health.”

_No shit._

“There were reports. Files.” Two-thirds of the water gone, but the older child caps the bottle and holds it out to him. “You are. Not the handler?”

_Own handler. Self._

“Not your handler.”

He takes the water bottle, takes the box of pills, sets the younger child on the bed and crushes the pills in the palm of his metal hand into a fine powder, tilts the powder into the water bottle and shakes so it dissolves. Looks at the younger child's pudgy hands. The older child is staring at the floor, not moving, not speaking.

“Open,” he says, and the younger child drools and looks at him with wide blue eyes.

…

…

…

Tiny sips, then, until the water is gone and mostly in the younger child's stomach.

Objective: obtain bottle.

…

…

…

…

The Soldier blinks. Children require medical attention. Children are hungry, dehydrated, need medication. Objective: bring children to hospital.

Feeling identified:

…

…

…

(a weapon does not feel)

“We are leaving,” he says, and stands, younger child balanced in one arm, places the box of pills in the top of the duffel, lifts the duffel up onto the opposite shoulder.

“...Not allowed. To leave.”

The older child is staring at the door. The older child has not moved from the bed.

The Soldier thinks.

(a weapon does not think)

Conclusion: the concept of “choice” has not been introduced.

“No more handlers. Can. _Choose_. Do you want to leave.”

“...”

The older child does not answer, but stands all the same, moving silently to a position 0.4 meters to the Soldier's right and 0.2 meters behind him, fingers twisting into thin gray fabric. A first choice. Choice is good.

“This way.”

Ascend to basement, third level. Ascend to basement, second level. Ascend to basement, first level. Ascend to ground floor. Exit through back door. Time: evening; temperature: below average. Cross two streets down, hide duffel in alleyway.

The older child is not wearing shoes. The older child is shivering. The younger child has fallen asleep in the Soldier's hold, still drooling.

Assessment: gross.

Likelihood of medical attention provided to children should they proceed immediately to a hospital: 98.2%.

Threat to children by HYDRA agents should the Soldier leave them at the hospital: 62.1%.

Likelihood of being recognized should the Soldier accompany the children: 72.9%. Increased threat to children following association with the Soldier.

The older child is shivering. The older child is not wearing shoes.

“Safe house. This way.”

Conclusion: indefinite delay necessary.

The safe house is a building for sale, broken into by the Soldier, temporarily utilized for the Soldier's purposes. It will be warmer, there.

The older child follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a follow-up! Still no idea if and when there's going to be more, but here we are regardless.

It has been twenty-seven days since the Asset dove into the Potomac, and the Soldier dragged the Mission out of the murky depths. Living in a manner that avoids detection is information he knows without knowing how he knows it. A different house every few nights, perimeter checked and secured, moving steadily away from the chaos caused in the capital.

Something echoes, like the shadow of a dream not quite remembered-- the Mission is a stubborn asshole, and can survive without surveillance. Probably.

The Soldier walks to the safe house, carrying the duffel bag on one shoulder and the younger child in one arm. The younger child is still sleeping. The older child continues to walk 0.4 meters to the Soldier's right and 0.2 meters behind him, arms pulled in close, still shivering.

Another echo, louder than some of them, but not a bad loud. The Soldier's head tilts to one side minutely as they walk across the lawn around to the back door, thinking. An apartment, drafty, small, thin walls and creaking floors, and a bath in frigid water, because if Stevie doesn't get the warm water he won't be able to breathe, lungs rattling on every inhale.

The older child is shivering.

The Soldier breathes until the echoes fade away.

Who is Stevie.

Not the man on the bridge, not the man in the museum. Too small. Further thought required.

But later. The older child is shivering.

He places the younger child, still sleeping, on the couch of the borrowed house. He takes a blanket from his nest in the corner, location chosen for optimal surveillance, and holds it out. The older child looks at it and shivers.

There were no blankets in the room in the fourth level of the basement, with the carpet and locked cabinet and lonely puzzle boxes on the floor. One set of sheets per bed, one pillow.

Emotion identified: confusion, recognized from glimpses in the Soldier's reflection.

“For warmth,” he says.

“Warmth,” the older child repeats, and takes the blanket, and holds it close. “Warmth.”

He crosses the room and puts the duffel with the others, sitting cross-legged on the floor to sort through what he has taken. Many of the weapons he keeps. Some of them he deposits at SHIELD bases known to be SHIELD and not HYDRA, though he isn't sure how he knows which ones are which. He keeps all information. Standard procedure after a completed mission is: return to base, report, submit to post-mission processes, the tank.

This no longer applies, but doing nothing makes his mind turn to static and fuzz. He returns to the place he is staying, and he sorts through all information and items obtained, and he writes down what he has done in a small black book. There are photos of the man on the bridge in the book, from the museum. Sometimes they make echoes. Sometimes they quiet them. There are photos of the people the man on the bridge was with in the book. Sometimes they also make echoes. But mostly there are recordings of missions, so he can remember where he is, what he has done, what he is doing.

Post-mission processes focused on hygiene, nutrients.

Likelihood that the older child and the younger child have eaten in the past three days: 2%.

The younger child does not have enough teeth to eat a protein bar.

The Soldier finishes separating weapons and flash drives and papers. Most of the weapons go into his duffel bag of weapons. Remaining weapons go into pockets, holsters. The flash drives go into pockets. The papers go into folders to be reviewed later. Post-mission procedures take precedence over mission recordings in this case. This is a choice that he makes.

The older child is still shaking, but less, now wrapped in the blanket.

What to call them.

The Soldier is not the Asset. This is something he knows. The Asset was a tool. He is still a tool, maybe, but he is also maybe a person.

Test 2 and Test 7 are not people.

What to call them.

“Do you--” he begins, and then stops. If _choice_ is a concept only introduced to them today, then _want_ is probably a concept equally unfamiliar. Change of tactic. “Are you hungry,” he corrects.

The older child blinks at him, wide brown eyes in a thin face. “...Yes?”

Things do not want. Things do not feel. Only people want and feel.

He goes through another duffel. There are two. One is for weapons. One is for food and information collected, and weapons that will not fit in the first; he knows he will run out of room eventually, should the pattern of entering and obliterating HYDRA bases continue. He removes a can of soup. Soup lasts for a long time in cans. Easy to transport. Effective as a weapon, if necessary.

The label reads “condensed chicken noodle soup.” He looks at it, deems it sufficient, and removes three more. One is minestrone. One is vegetable. One is tomato. There is a microwave in the house kitchen. Cold soup is adequate, but less satisfying.

Satisfaction beyond destruction of HYDRA bases: a quiet in the mind, less tension in the shoulders.

“Hot,” he cautions, bringing bowls and spoons back. The older child still has not moved. The older child takes the mug carefully, then the spoon, and sits on the floor and watches steam waft up. The Soldier puts down the other bowls, picks up the younger child, sits on the floor 0.9 meters away.

The younger child stirs at the movement, blinks sleepily awake, and babbles nonsense, patting the Soldier's face. The Soldier sticks a finger in the soup to determine whether or not it is too hot (it isn't) and endeavors to feed the younger child. He can wait to eat.

“Who... are you?” the older child asks, finally looking up from the bowl. He has given the older child the chicken noodle soup. The older child is still wrapped in the blanket.

“The Soldier,” he says. The younger child makes a grab for the spoon, and so the Soldier hands it over.

“Like us?” the older child asks.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Like you.”

“Did. Someone find you. Too?”

The Soldier thinks about the man on the bridge. The last time he remembered the man on the bridge, they tried to make him forget. He did forget, until the echoes came back and he leaped into the river. He is his own handler now. He will not make himself forget.

“Yes,” he agrees.

“Also like us?”

Emotion identified: what an exclamation point conveys. The bowl of soup shakes minutely in the metal arm, and so he rests it on his leg. The younger child fumbles with the spoon, but most of the soup is swallowed instead of spilled.

“No. Not like us. Safe from them.”

“Safe,” the older child repeats, and looks around, and shrinks a little more into the blanket. The soup is half-gone. “Safe.”

“Safe,” he repeats back-- this is a good kind of echo.

Standard procedure: return to base, report, submit to post-mission processes, the tank.

This is the base. Post-mission processes are under way. The tank no longer applies.

He is acting out of order.

“Current objectives: locate HYDRA bases, empty of HYDRA personnel and valuables, return to base, repeat.” The tension in his chest eases somewhat. Reports are given to another person, not written down in a book, though the black book with pictures of the man from the bridge will suffice if needed. The older child nods.

What to call them.

“Current objectives likely to be delegated as secondary objectives. Primary objectives: safety, information.”

The older child nods again. “Safe?”

“Safe,” he agrees.

“Soldier?” the older child asks, hesitant, pointing at him.

“Yes,” the Soldier agrees.

“...Soldier?” the older child asks again, pointing inward.

The static in his mind flares, deafening, disorienting.

“No.”

“Soldier?” the older child asks a third time, pointing at the younger, still fumbling with the spoon and the soup. More of it has spilled. The static grows louder. He imagines punching it with the metal arm until he can breathe again.

“No.”

The older child hums. Nods. Lifts the bowl and drinks. “Not HYDRA.”

“Not HYDRA.”

They finish the meal in silence.

When the bowls are cleaned and the cans disposed of, the Soldier eyes the younger child with an expression that is not quite a frown, but not something pleased. Spilled soup. He has no clothes for a child. The older child pulls the blanket close and watches him.

“Names,” he says finally, thinking.

Names: _Barnes, James Buchanan. Rogers, Steven Grant. Romanova, Natalia._ Names he knows but does not understand.

“Soldier,” the older child says, pointing. Then, “Test Two, Test Seven.”

“Tests are-- not names.”

The older child hums again. “Doctor?”

“Occupation.”

“Sir?”

“Indicator of respect, authority.”

The older child is frowning, now. “...Name?”

“Identifier, personal.”

“Oh.”

The Soldier looks at the children. The younger child has crawled over and is holding onto his boot again. He picks up the younger child so as to avoid potential stepping-on. He sits down next to the younger child, removes a burner phone from his pocket.

“Names,” he says again, tapping in _list of russian names_ – there are echoes in the mind of Russian words and letters painted in Cyrillic, and he thinks that he prefers those echoes to the ones more recent – and following with one of the first links that comes up. “Many names. You can choose.”

“Choose,” the older child repeats back. The older child does a lot of that – this is good, the Soldier thinks. Repetition is beneficial to memory. The older child looks at the phone, then up at the Soldier, then back down. He scrolls.“That one?”

“Alexei,” the Soldier pronounces. “Defender. Diminutives, Lyosha, Lyoshenka.”

“What is... diminutives?”

“Shortened,” the Soldier says, though in truth he does not know why such things are needed. Neither does he know why he knows diminutives and the meaning of names. It is a puzzle piece, one of many while many more are missing, so he lets it rattle in his mind with the echoes until something can be done with it. Regardless, it feels... correct, he thinks, that is the word best used. “Used by people who are.” Used by people who are? “...Familiar.”

“That one?”

“Anastasia. Resurrection. Diminutives, Nastya, Nastenka.”

“That one?”

The younger child falls asleep, eventually, and the Soldier is exceedingly careful to monitor his movements, breathing, heartbeat, so as not to wake the sleeping child. The older child asks questions about names until the sun has set below the horizon and the safe house is but dimly lit.

The Soldier considers taking them to a hospital – likelihood of discovery by HYDRA, still too high.

What to call them.

What to do with them.

“That one?” the older child asks.

“Yekaterina,” the Soldier says. “Catherine. Pure. Diminutives, Katya, Katyusha.”

“Katya,” the older child repeats back, then taps his chest. The Soldier applauds himself for not flinching. His skin still crawls at sudden movement. “Soldier.” Then, pointing inward: “Katya.”

“Yekaterina,” he agrees. “Katya.”

“Alexander?” asks Katya, then blinks once, then a second time. “...Alexei. Lyosha.”

“Lyosha,” the Soldier echoes, and feels the younger child shift a bit in his sleep.

“Safe?” Katya asks, and he nods back at her. His face is doing something strange. An upward curl of the lips, a pressure in the chest unrelated to breathing.

“Safe,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm, like, eighty percent sure that I've gotten the Russian name meanings and diminutives correct. If I'm wrong, someone please correct me! And as always, thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> For more writerly things, come find me on Tumblr @floraobsidian

**Author's Note:**

> So this is meant to be a oneshot, ambiguous ending, but who knows. If there's enough feedback or proper inspiration strikes, maybe I'll add more to it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!! Comments and kudos are, of course, much appreciated.
> 
> For more writerly related things, come find me on Tumblr @floraobsidian


End file.
